still
But still the heart doth need a language,
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend; and to the lover
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down: and even at this day
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair!

37. THE GRIEF OF BEREAVEMENT. Wallenstein's Reflections on hearing of the death of young Piccolomini. Translated from Schiller by Coleridge.

is dust!

He is gone,
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
For him there is no longer any future.
His life is bright, bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.
Far off is he, above desire and fear;

--

No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. O! 't is well

With him! but who knows what the coming hour,
Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us?

This anguish will be wearied down, I know;
What pang is permanent with man?
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself; for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
For O! he stood beside me, like my youth, -
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn!
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not

From the highest,

38. PRIULI AND JAFFIER.. Thomas Otway.

Thomas Otway, from whose tragedy of "Venice Preserved" the following extract is taken, was born in Sussex, England, in 1651, and died, in a state of almost incredible destitution and wretchedness, in 1685. He was the author of several plays, of which his "Venice Preserved" is the most deservedly celebrated.

Priuli. No more! I'll hear no more! Begone, and leave me'
Jaffier. Not hear me! By my sufferings, but you shall!
My Lord, my Lord! I'm not that abject wretch
You think me.

Patience! where 's the distance throws

Me back so far, but I may boldly speak

In right, though proud oppression will not hear me?

Pri. Have you not wronged me?
Jaf. Could my nature e'er

Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wronged you?

Pri. Yes, wronged me! In the nicest point,
The honor of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember (for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness), when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on,
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation,
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits:
My house, my table, nay, my fortune, too,
My very self, was yours; - you might have used me
To your best service. Like an open friend,
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine,
When, in requital of my best endeavors,
You treacherously practised to undo me:
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom.
O, Belvidera!

Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her:

Childless had been else, and in the grave
you
Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since, in your brigantine, you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke;
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock, when to your boat
You made for safety: entered first yourself;
The affrighted Belvidera following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was, by a wave, washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And, buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms:
Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul; for from that hour she loved me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

you

Pri. You stole her from me! - like a thief At dead of night! that curséd hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear

stole her,

May all your joys in her prove false, like mine!
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed,
Attend you both! continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous! still
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you; till, at last, you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion!

Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain ; Heaven has already crowned our outcast lot With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, And happier than his father!

Pri. Rather live

To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears
With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother
Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want!

Jaf. You talk as if 't would please you.
Pri. 'T would, by Heaven!

Jaf. Would I were in my grave!

Pri. And she, too, with thee!

For, living here, you 're but my cursed remembrancers I was once happy!

Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive

My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me
But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?
Pri. You dare not do 't!

Jaf. Indeed, my Lord, I dare not.

My heart, that awes me, is too much my master.
Three years are past, since first our vows were plighted,
During which time, the world must bear me witness,
I've treated Belvidera as your daughter,
The daughter of a Senator of Venice;
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded.
Out of my little fortune I've done this;
Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself,
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

Pri. No more!

-

Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu forever.
There's not a wretch that lives on common charity
But 's happier than I; for I have known

The luscious sweets of plenty;
every night
Have slept with soft conte it about my head,

And never waked but to a joyful morning;
Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom 'scaped, yet 's withered in the ripening!

Pri. Home, and be humble! Study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin in thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly;

Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state;

Then to some suburb cottage both retire;
Drudge to feed loathsome life! Hence, hence, and starve!
Home, home, I say!

39. NOTHING IN IT.-Charles Mathews.

Leech. But you don't laugh, Coldstream! Come, man, be amused, for once in your life! - you don't laugh.

Sir Charles. O, yes, I do. You mistake; I laughed twice, distinctly, only, the fact is, I am bored to death!

Leech. Bored? What! after such a feast as that you have given us? Look at me, I'm inspired! I'm a King at this moment, and all the world is at my feet!

Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late. You are a young fellow, forty-five, and have the world yet before you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried everything, heard everything, done everything, know everything; and here I am, a man of thirty-three, literally used up-completely blasé !

- not to

Leech. Nonsense, man!- used up, indeed!—with your wealth, with your twenty estates in the sunniest spots in England, mention that Utopia, within four walls, in the Rue de Provence, in Paris.

Sir C. I'm dead with ennui!

Leech. Ennui poor Croesus! Sir C. Croesus! no, I'm no Croesus! My father, - you've seen his portrait, good old fellow ! - he certainly did leave me a little matter of twelve thousand pounds a year; but, after all

Leech. O, come!

Sir C. O, I don't complain of it.

Leech. I should think not.

Leech. I know several. change of scene.

Sir C. I have tried it; - what's the use?
Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe.

Sir C. I have; - there's nothing in it.

Sir C. O, no; there are some people who can manage to do on less, on credit.

My dear Coldstream, you should try

Leech. Nothing in all Europe?

Sir C. Nothing!-O, dear, yes! I remember, at one time, I did, somehow, go about a good deal.

Leech. You should Sir C. I have been. Nothing there, people say so much about everything. There certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's, - less trouble, and more in it.

go

to Switzerland.

Leech. Then, if Switzerland would n't do, I'd try Italy.

Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again, — and what then?

Leech. Did not Rome inspire you?

Sir C. O, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole! People talk so much about these things. There's the Coloseum, now; round, very round, a goodish ruin enough; but I was disappointed with it. Capitol,-tolerable high; and St. Peter's,- marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not badly scooped; but there was nothing

in it.

Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London.

Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but, if we wanted such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up; nay, if that were all, we 'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over. Leech. Ha, ha! well said, you 're quite right. What say you to beautiful Naples?

―――――

Sir C. Not bad, excellent water-melons, and goodish opera; they took me up Vesuvius, - a horrid bore! It smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched mountain; -saw the craterlooked down, but there was nothing in it.

Leech. But the bay?

Sir C. Inferior to Dublin !

Leech. The Campagna ?
Sir C. A swamp!
Leech. Greece?
Sir C. A morass!
Leech. Athens ?
Sir C. A bad Edinburgh!
Leech. Egypt?
Sir C. A desert!

Leech. The Pyramids ?
Sir C. Humbugs! - nothing in any of them!
it possible that you cannot invent something
blood boil in my veins,- my hair stand on end,
pulse rise; that would produce an excitement -
sation a palpitation-but, no!-
Leech. I've an idea!

Sir C. You? What is it?
Leech. Marry!

You bore me. Is that would make my my heart beat, - my

an emotion

a sen